


Easy Pickings

by manic_intent



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Sugar Daddy AU, That AU where Napoleon is a college thief kid, and Illya is the sugar daddy, spuncleexchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:16:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5985916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tall blonde man at a quiet corner of the bar had turned out to be far less drunk than he had seemed, and now Napoleon’s wrist was caught in an iron grip, and he had been hauled up close for inspection with no apparent effort. His ‘victim’, Napoleon noted, startled, was like a deliberately ruined painting, movie-star looks gashed by a thin, hard line of a mouth and pitiless blue eyes; there was a cold savagery to his poise, his immaculate charcoal suit, his fine-combed hair that shone a dull bloody rust in the muted mood lighting of the bar. Pointedly, the stranger picked his watch out of Napoleon’s grip, and pocketed it.</p><p>Valentine's Day gift for Vawn/Typohime</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy Pickings

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Easy Pickings/手到擒來](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6867766) by [notthechosenone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthechosenone/pseuds/notthechosenone)



> I actually completed my fan exchange item early in January, but a month later kinda felt dissatisfied with the fic, so here’s another one… XD;; Maybe if I ever rework the original I will release it, but in any case, here’s a… young!Napoleon x older!Illya, sugar daddy modern!AU (cough).
> 
> For: Vawn/typohime  
> Prompt: AU, Illya being happy (Angsty with a fluffy/happy ending), no abuse/non-con

I.

Nice bars _had_ meant easy pickings.

Napoleon was careful to dress the part. Not young enough to get carded at the door, but _just_ young enough that he didn’t register as competition to the investment bankers and accountants and up-and-coming entrepreneurs prowling around the high tables, trying to Tinder a hookup for the night. He also didn’t try to hit on any of the women who arrived, in high heels and in small packs, red-lipped and painted and confident: to anyone in the bar, he was just here for a hipster beer, maybe a snack. The trick to getting ignored, Napoleon found, was to keep his eyes averted and his shoulders hunched down, broadcasting indifference. 

Working bars was a risky business, though, easy as it was to lift watches and wallets from the comfortably tipsy. If Napoleon ever got caught by management, getting a bruising from the bouncers would be the least of his problems. And if he ever got careless enough to be caught by clientele- 

Well. That was more or less how Napoleon had gotten into his current predicament. A tall blonde man at a quiet corner of the bar had turned out to be far less drunk than he had seemed, and now Napoleon’s wrist was caught in an iron grip, and he had been hauled up close for inspection with no apparent effort. His ‘victim’, Napoleon noted, startled, was like a deliberately ruined painting, movie-star looks gashed by a thin, hard line of a mouth and pitiless blue eyes; there was a cold savagery to his poise, his immaculate charcoal suit, his fine-combed hair that shone a dull bloody rust in the muted mood lighting of the bar. Pointedly, the stranger picked his watch out of Napoleon’s grip, and pocketed it. 

What the hell. Napoleon had gotten out of worse scrapes with charm and a little luck. Trying his best, boyish smile, Napoleon drawled, “Sorry about that, sir.”

“Sorry that you tried to steal watch?” drawled the stranger, in a thick Russian accent, ruthlessly deep. Napoleon swallowed, abruptly and irrationally dry-mouthed. 

“Sorry that I got caught,” Napoleon admitted, before he could help himself, and surprisingly, the stranger smirked at this, his grip on Napoleon’s wrist loosening a fraction. 

“Sit down.” The stranger pushed him into the high stool beside him, and glanced briefly over his shoulder, at the tipsy, chattering crowd, scanning faces. “Name?”

“… John,” Napoleon noted cautiously.

The stranger rolled his eyes. “You want to use fake name, use less obvious one.” Before Napoleon could stop him, the stranger was patting him down, brusque and professional, and he found Napoleon’s own wallet in his inner pocket. Resigned, Napoleon sank against the table as the stranger flicked open his wallet to check his driver’s license. Then he closed the wallet, and put it back in Napoleon’s jacket. 

“What are you, FBI?” Napoleon asked sourly. 

The stranger smiled, sharp and amused. “You think FBI sit around a bar, catching small thieves?” 

“I think an FBI agent won’t have a strong Russian accent, sitting around a nice bar like this, catching a thief, unless he was up to no good and wanted some cover,” Napoleon said confidently, and tried a sharp smile of his own. “But you’re dressed too well to be an FBI agent. That’s a tailor-cut suit. Three thousand bucks, easy. That watch though, it’s old and nothing special.” 

“So why did you try to steal it?”

“I need some quick money tomorrow,” Napoleon admitted, a little sheepishly. “Pawning off something like a Patek, kinda hard on short notice. A dinged up old watch though, I could just pretend it was my dad’s, in any old shop out there.”

“Money for what?” 

“College tuition. I’ve already got most of it.” 

“Why does a thief need to go to college?” The stranger, however, was smiling again, a little less sharply, though his grip didn’t slacken on Napoleon’s wrist. 

“To stop being a thief?” Napoleon wasn’t keen on taking on debt, or doing a few rounds in Afghanistan to get the debt forgiven. He was only a _little_ way off on the instalment. “So uh. If we’re cool here, I’ll… get out of your hair, and.” 

The stranger sighed. With his free hand, he took out his own wallet, letting go of Napoleon as he did so. He took the cash from inside it and passed it over, but when Napoleon didn’t make a move to take it, he pushed it into the front pocket of Napoleon’s jacket. “Count it. You need more?”

“… what’s this about?” Napoleon asked warily. 

The stranger turned his face away dismissively, taking a sip of his whisky. “I remember what it is like to be young and hungry. Go away, boy.”

1.0

Illya had little concentration to spare during the board meeting, and he hoped that it didn’t show: as much as he had only disdain for half of the members of the board, it would have been… unprofessional. He worked through lunch, firing off emails and on the phone, trying to negotiate the final details of a ship repair contract in Hong Kong. It was a gruelling slog, leaving Illya working late and too drained and exhausted at the end to do much more than stumble home to his Central Park apartment to sleep, and he soon forgot about the pretty little jackal he had met in the bar - until he met him again.

With his office only a few blocks from Central Park, Illya often preferred to walk home rather than crawl through traffic. It was a brisk evening, heading into autumn, and as Illya made it to the steps of his apartment block, he paused as he recognised someone familiar on a street bench, in a light leather jacket, hands splayed over tight denim jeans. Napoleon grinned as Illya frowned at him, getting to his feet, and when Illya didn’t move, he raised an eyebrow and sauntered over.

“Hi.”

“You.”

“Now,” Napoleon sighed, “That’s not very friendly.”

“Why are you here?” 

“I don’t like having debts.” To Illya’s surprise, Napoleon pulled a neat envelope out from inside his jacket, and tried to hand it over. “Here.” 

“Was a gift.”

“Okay, so’s this.”

“So you are happy with stealing my watch but not happy taking my money?” Illya drawled, amused enough that he now felt a little less irritated at the intrusion. 

“I still have some principles. Mama would be so proud.” That accent. Not quite from New York. Not quite from anywhere else, either. The little jackal, already learning the subtler details of covering his tracks.

“Keep it. You will have more tuition to pay in the future, yes? Maybe one less person will lose a watch.”

“Aww, c’mon. Don’t make me leave it in your letterbox.” 

“How did you find out where I stayed?” 

“You’ll be surprised how easy it is to find out where someone lives nowadays,” Napoleon said cheerfully, “Especially when he’s some sort of Russian shipping billionaire.” 

“And knowing that you still tried to return me small change?” 

“If I’d known you were going to argue with me over this,” Napoleon scowled, prettier when showing a little teeth, like this, “I would’ve just left it in your mailbox. What, is it not the Russian way or something to collect on a debt?”

“Was not a debt.” Illya corrected, and gave in to avarice. Amusement and a startled breed of pleasure were making it a little difficult to think. “Want to come up for a drink?” He looked Napoleon pointedly up and down, telegraphing his intent.

Napoleon laughed, pocketing the envelope. “So _that’s_ why you were at the bar, Mister ‘FBI’.”

“What do you think people go to bars for?”

“Drink? Steal watches?” Napoleon grinned, though. The little jackal, unafraid. “Lead on.” 

Illya kissed Napoleon in the lift, crowding him against the wall. Lust made him lightheaded as Napoleon muffled a laugh and kissed him back, just as fiercely, lips mauled as they stumbled out eventually into Illya’s apartment, teeth bloodied, shedding clothes. They ground against each other in the shower, Illya working fingers carefully into Napoleon against his husky little moans, until Napoleon came between them, just with fingers jammed against his prostate, with an urgent gasping whine. He fumbled Illya to a messy finish with hands that were eager enough, and then Illya turned the water off and got a hand into Napoleon’s hair and made him take Illya’s softened cock into his mouth, sliding it in and out of that wickedly impish mouth until he was hard again, stretching Napoleon’s jaw, gagging him on it.

Braced against the sink, Napoleon groaned and tried to spread his own thighs wider as Illya pushed into him, deeper, carefully deeper. The little jackal was enjoying the show that he was giving, grinning slyly at Illya via the mirror, prettily flushed, his dark hair plastered to his cheeks and scalp. He was still growing into the prime of his life, still sharp-edged and a little gangly; Napoleon had the fierce vitality of youth, his defiance still unbroken, wearing a lovely smug arrogance like fresh-minted armour. 

Illya closed his fist tightly around Napoleon’s cock, making him gasp, teeth bared against Napoleon’s shoulder. He would break that arrogance, tame that defiance. He would have the little jackal in his bed, have Napoleon learn to feed from his palm. Burying his mouth over the top of Napoleon’s spine, Illya fucked Napoleon slowly enough against the sink that Napoleon breathlessly begged him to go faster; then, when Napoleon was spent for a second time, Illya took him again on the bed, roughly this time, until Napoleon arched and wailed and begged him to finish. 

Condoms disposed of, Illya came back to a sleepy-eyed, yawning Napoleon, who mumbled and snuggled close when dragged over and away from the wet spot. Napoleon was grinning again, pleased over something or other, and Illya arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“I thought you were going to kick me out.” 

Illya sniffed. “You need better playmates. Stay to the morning, whatever you like. Just try not to steal things. You want money, ask.”

“You’ve just taken the fun out of everything,” Napoleon said mournfully, though he grinned again and kissed Illya on the cheek, then laughed as he was swatted away. 

“How is it,” Napoleon asked at breakfast, after having consumed an excessive amount of coffee and eggs and toast, “That someone as gorgeous as you are happens to be single?” 

“You think I am single?” Illya inquired, amused all over again. They were in bathrobes, sitting on the long couch, enjoying the view from the long, floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Illya was flicking through his morning emails on his phone, but Napoleon didn’t seem to mind, sitting close, boyishly attentive. It was probably an act, but if so, it was a good one. Illya found that he did not care. There was something about Napoleon that would make even the virtuous hungry.

“Aww, c’mon. I looked you up on the _Internet_. And besides. You obviously live alone in here. Although if you were the one who arranged your tie drawer by colour, you probably need to get out more.” 

Somewhere in the night, Napoleon must have quietly looked around the apartment - all without Illya waking up. Impressive. “What about you? Why is a pretty young man like you single? Stole too many purses, along with their hearts?” 

“Easier this way,” Napoleon said confidently, and that decided Illya on the matter. 

“I think we both have something that the other one wants,” Illya noted mildly. 

“I don’t believe that,” Napoleon was still smiling, but his eyes were wary, now. “Seriously. You’re gorgeous. You don’t have to pay someone to be here. You could probably find someone… eh, more suitable. Billionaires date models, don’t they? Actresses and such?”

Illya shrugged. “If I were to date someone ‘suitable’ it would cost me more in gifts than tuition fees. And it would be messy. Better to come to an arrangement with someone like you. I like simplicity.” 

“Simplicity,” Napoleon repeated, sounding unconvinced. 

“Think about it. But before you go,” Illya rested a hand lightly on Napoleon’s bared knee. “I want to have you again.” 

“Could be arranged,” Napoleon said, playful again, and abandoned his coffee, climbing into Illya’s lap.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


End file.
